


sunshine and bone

by LunaChai



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, F/M, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Original Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 20:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaChai/pseuds/LunaChai
Summary: On the border between Spring and Death, a son of Hades falls for a daughter of Persephone.





	sunshine and bone

On the border between Spring and Death, a son of Hades hears a daughter of Persephone.

Felix, son of Hades, doesn't mean to. He's simply passing by, checking the edges of Death for any anomalies with his sword at the ready. It's meant to be a spot patrol, quick and harmless, without meaning. He treads past alabaster trees and onyx boulders and bonemeal gravel, his sharp eyes darting through every crevice.

But he's interrupted by the faint strains of a sweet voice in the air, coming from the direction of Spring.

_Music?_

The sound stops Felix in his tracks. He's heard music before, but not often. While the souls in Elysium like to sing, he tends to stay away from the provinces of the afterlife. His job is a reaper, not a gatekeeper or a caretaker.

But this song—something about it captures him, draws him out from behind the alabaster trees to the border of Spring.

The Glade of Persephone sprawls before him, lush and verdant with swaths of emerald grass and an orchard of plump trees. The amount of color hurts Felix's eyes, and he feels a bitter distaste welling up on his tongue. The Glade looks unbearably hot and garish. How could anyone possibly live there?

Except.

A lone woman, a daughter of Persephone, is sitting in the shade of the nearest tree, tracing patterns in the grass. He watches as pastel tulips push up from the soil, follow her finger, then are delicately plucked and placed in a white wicker basket. His eyes are drawn to her hair—bright orange that blazes in the sunlight. Ordinarily, he hates bright things, as do most servants of Death. But something about her hair is calming and mesmerizing, like a flickering bonfire in the dead of night.

She raises her head, and a melody peals from her lips.

_Innocence._ The word throttles him as he realizes. That's what her song has—that's what she has. It's something rife in Spring that he sorely lacks.

He wants to hear more of it.

Felix turns to the shadow who always lingers just five steps behind him: Ingrid, the hardworking, pragmatic guardian put at his side from youth. She bows her head sharply, pale gold hair swaying.

"Milord," she says.

Felix juts his chin somewhere in the distance. "Patrol southwards," he commands.

Her brows furrow, and her eyes flit to the daughter of Persephone in the glade. Something dawns on her gaze. He doesn't like it when she raises a single brow.

"Yes, milord," she says.

She leaves, lithe and graceful, crescent spear still in hand.

He waits for her to completely disappear in the barren undergrowth before he slips forward, closing in on the border. He keeps his pace slow and silent—deadly like the darkness that wraps around him. He's a son of Hades. He's an offspring of Death. He's a reaper, a fragment of the shadows, a noble of the underwo—

"_Oh, how I love to grow, grow in the glade in June. Plant the flowers and they all go bloom!_"

The lyrics are childish and half-nonsensical, punctuated by her bright, sweet voice. Something odd bubbles in Felix's throat, and he realizes it's laughter.

The girl with the sunshine hair touches the trees, and they swell with delicate blossoms. She starts to pick them and gather them in her basket, humming all the while.

Felix glances around. No one in sight. He inches closer, crouching low to the ground.

The girl lifts her face, her humming turning back into a song. "_Grow in the glade in June, that's the doom, of a daughter of Persephone's definitely heavenly room! Plant the flowers and they all go bloom!_"

She strikes invisible drumbeats with her fingers, and he cracks.

He chokes out a twisted chuckle.

The sound echoes past the border, bouncing off of the bonemeal earth and rattling into the glade. The girl with the sunshine hair stiffens and whips around. Blue eyes graze him, and he feels a burst of adrenaline, almost like he's at the other end of a blade. He draws behind the nearest cover: an alabaster tree with gnarled, stony branches.

Stillness. She's quiet, searching the shadows for the intruder.

He waits, tense and ready to spring, his hand resting on his sword.

"Hello?"

The call is uncertain and tremulous. Death is terrifying enough. To see something move within it must be infinitely more so.

Still he waits. The voice in his head yells for him to turn and leave, but he stays. He wants to hear more of that charming, lilting voice.

She doesn't sing again. Eventually, he slides back into the darkness with a tinge of disappointment.

.

.

.

On the border between Spring and Death, a son of Hades speaks with a daughter of Persephone.

Whenever his tasks take him to the border, Felix sends Ingrid ahead and lingers behind, listening to the inane songs of the girl with the sunshine hair. Sometimes she stops and looks towards Death, like she can sense him—impossible. Sometimes she doesn't.

Weeks pass before Ingrid pulls him aside, her eyes respectfully averted, but sharp.

"Young Master Freldarius," she says.

"I don't like it when you start with that," Felix says dryly. "You only use that title when I'm in trouble. Just call me Felix already."

She blinks, glances around, then clears her throat. "Then allow me to be frank."

"I never disallowed it."

Ingrid's halfway through rolling her eyes before she stops abruptly, remembering that she's rolling her eyes at the son of the Lord Reaper. Felix almost smirks.

"I'm concerned with the implications of your tendencies at the border of Spring," she says politely.

"What is there to fear?" he asks drolly. "Yes, do protect me from the terror of flowers and trees. Don't let them hurt me, Ingrid. They might bite."

"Technically, this could be some intrigue to entice you over the border and start a war," Ingrid says irritatedly.

Felix snarls. "Entice. I can't be _enticed._"

"Forgive me for saying, mi—Felix, but it seems like you already have."

"You worry for two impossible things," he scoffs. "I can't be enticed, and Death and Life will never have a war."

He stalks away in a foul mood, Ingrid following silently behind him.

And just to prove that he's invincible—_because he is_—he returns to the border the very next day. This time, he stands clear of cover, lurking just beneath the shade of an alabaster tree. Though his dark clothes do well to camouflage him, he's still in plain view; anyone who gives the border more than a cursory glance will be able to see him.

And it's terrifying.

He has to clench his fists until his fingers cut into his palms to keep himself from running. Every instinct as a child of the night is screaming for him to get back into cover, but he ignores it.

In the Glade, the girl with the sunshine hair sings softly to herself, lyrics too quiet to hear. He waits as she grows white gardenias and rosy pink azaleas, her touch tender and careful.

He wonders: _Is she singing softly so that I'd come closer?_

No, the thought is ridiculous.

Eventually, the girl raises her head and glances around. She looks to the border, her song trailing off.

Blue eyes.

Parted lips.

Something spikes up Felix's skull—panic, fear, hatred, maybe. He feels the urge to bolt, but he grinds his heels into the bonemeal and stares her in the eye. A son of Hades won't be the first to break.

The girl with the sunshine hair fearlessly walks up to the border, stopping just before verdant green turns to ashen white. And he mirrors her, drawing out from beneath the trees. They halt just before the border, close enough to touch. He can see the little sun-rinsed blossoms braided into her hair.

She stands there. He doesn't move.

"Hi," she says. "It's nice to finally meet you."

_She knew._

_She noticed._

"You're the Reaper's Shadow, aren't you?" she says, and her voice carries a little tremble, but she bravely meets his eyes.

"The Reaper's Shadow?" His voice sounds dry and crackly to his ears. He realizes that he doesn't speak much aside from Ingrid.

"They say that you follow the Lord Reaper silently, doing his every bidding without a second thought." She bites her lip, ivory teeth catching on plump, pink, soft flesh. "No tracks to see, no voice to hear. A mindless, soulless hound of Death."

Her eyes should hold fear, but they don't. They look curious, bright, almost reverent: a legend before her eyes, just an arm's length away.

"Then why do you stay so close?" he says dryly. "I could bite."

She ponders this for a moment. "Well, hounds can also be puppies."

He laughs at that. It's a bitter, frightening sound that scrapes along his skin. He's surprised when she doesn't run from it. "You're an odd girl."

She smiles like she means it, and it almost blinds him.

He turns, suddenly feeling disarmed. His hand strays to the slim sword at his hip like a reminder. "Goodbye, odd girl," he says bluntly. "I've got biddings to do without a second thought."

"Will you come again?" she blurts.

He looks at her, surprised. Her eyes are vibrant and eager, and a gentle flush is dusted over her cheeks. She looks like beauty and life, and he feels that if he touches her, she'll wither away.

"No," he lies.

He slips into the undergrowth and vanishes into the mist. The girl with the sunshine hair stands there for a long time, hands tangled in her skirt.

.

.

.

Felix manages to stay away for all of two weeks, sending Ingrid alone on the border patrols. He can feel something tugging him to that hot and garish place, and he knows what it means; he's no fool.

But Ingrid starts returning with a rattled look. When he asks for her reports, she's distracted and distant. _Nothing to report,_ she claims, but the insistent bouncing of her knee says otherwise.

He makes sure to stare at her, coldly and judgingly and uncomfortably long. She's never able to meet his gaze.

"Are you lying to me?" he says flatly.

Ingrid flinches microscopically. "There's nothing of concern on the border. That's the truth, milord."

"It seems like _you're_ concerned."

Her hands tighten on her crescent spear. "I'm concerned about many things that need no concern."

"That you are," he says absently. He turns from her, looking at the dull grey mist of the underworld.

Perhaps it's time to visit the border of Spring again. Only because something is unsettling Ingrid.

.

.

.

On the border between Spring and Death, a son of Hades befriends a daughter of Persephone.

Felix is back on patrol. He's back to sending Ingrid ahead. He's back to playing with fire, flying too close to the sun, as foolish as Icarus with his broken wings. He's always prided himself on being unreachable and unbreakable, but he's discerning enough to know when he's been compromised. And still he's here.

All because of stupid songs about flowers.

Somehow, the girl with the sunshine hair senses him the moment he reaches the border. Her gaze snaps from her white wicker basket to the trees of Death. Her eyes land on him, and suddenly—unusually—her face lights up. He can't fathom why.

She darts to the border, a crown of lilies adorning her hair. "I knew you'd come back," she says, a little out of breath. "You're a total softie deep down, aren't you?"

He conveniently ignores that. "Has anything strange been happening here?" he says tersely.

Get to the point, and get out. That's all he's here for.

The girl with the sunshine hair stops short, and a flash of disappointment crosses her features. "I don't... think so? I haven't seen anything." She pauses, then rushes. "Not that I've been watching the border. I might've missed something. Actually, I probably definitely missed something."

"Fine," he says. _That's all. Goodbye. Say it._

His mouth doesn't move.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment before the girl speaks. "How have you been?" she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear. A lily petal falls to her shoulder. It's distracting.

Felix shrugs. "Same old. Work." He pauses, feeling a little lost. "You?"

Her eyes brighten, just because he kept a conversation going. "I've been braiding crowns recently. The recent batch is for the Caravan of Hermes—so they can remember all their orders and where they need to fly and everything."

He blinks. None of that makes any sense in his mind. "What?"

"Oh, sorry." She flushes a little. "When children of Demeter or Persephone braid crowns, we can imbue them with emotions or memories. Sometimes. It's kind of complicated, and it takes a lot of practice. But crowns and wreaths can help servants remember things if they wear them. I've been working on alstroemeria, because they symbolize wealth and fortune, so they're more helpful for remembering transactions and orders and—oh, sorry, none of this is probably interesting."

Actually, it's very interesting. Servants of Death know little about the realm of Life except that it's bright and annoying. Felix never thought that its culture could be as rich and complex as the seven branches of Hades.

"Can you make a wreath for Death?" he says. "One for remembering a lot of names of souls." He knows a few gatekeepers who would appreciate such a tool.

The girl with the sunshine hair makes a concentrated frown, her eyebrows furrowing. "I've never tried it," she says honestly. "I think—the flowers, they might not last when they go over the border. But we can always give it a shot!"

Felix expected a servant of Life to feel much more uneasy about making something for Death. But then again, this girl doesn't strike him as the suspicious type. "You're an odd girl."

"My name isn't 'odd girl,'" she says, eyes flashing. "It's Annette."

"Alright." He pauses. "Annette."

She pauses too, and he wonders if her name sounds unpleasant from his lips. But then she only tilts her head, regarding him with a glint in her eye. "And what's your name?"

He scoffs, hand idly passing over his sword. What did it matter? Noble or no noble, Reaper's Shadow or no Reaper's Shadow, he was just another war dog in Death's collection. "Call me whatever."

"Okay, Whatever," she teases.

He almost chuckles, but stuffs it down. The effort makes his face twist into a scowl.

Annette's eyes widen. "Whoa, gotcha. I won't call you that. Um."

His scowl immediately melts away. He doesn't want to frighten her. But he can't exactly apologize. Sons of Hades aren't supposed to be approachable.

He settles on telling her his name. "Felix. If you really want to know."

"Felix," she tests. She manages to make his name sound sweet. "And what do you do?"

Felix's hand settles on his blade. He sees Annette's gaze trail down and rest on the pommel. She blinks, and an edge of wariness removes the smile from her face.

There it is. Life's fear and abhorrence of Death. It had to kick in at some point.

"It's not exactly weaving flower crowns," Felix says. The words come out as mocking and empty. If she didn't hate him before, she probably hates him now.

To his surprise, her eyes lift back up. Her face is serious, but there's still levity to her voice when she speaks. "I mean, if Death was also in the business of weaving flower crowns, I'd be out of a job."

He feels his lips pulling up. He turns his head, masking it as a cough. "I see."

Annette shuffles on her feet. She looks like she's about to say more, but their conversation is broken by someone calling her name in the distance—_Annette, where are you, Annette!_

Felix instantly slips back in the shadows, lethal and silent.

Annette turns back, opening her mouth to speak—_sorry, looks like I have to go, it was nice talking with you_—only to be met with emptiness. She blinks and peers around, confused. In the alabaster forest of Death, Felix remains crouched behind a boulder, hidden from sight.

A figure materializes from the Glade of Persephone, rushing to the border—a young man with brilliant crimson hair and an easy smile. The emblem of a bouquet on his chest immediately pinpoints him as a son of Persephone.

"Whoa, Annette," he says. He grips Annette's shoulder and tugs her away from the border. She almost spills into him, and Felix's hand instinctively shoots to his sword.

He feels something very familiar from his daily duties: anger, bitterness. Why? It makes no sense.

"Not so close, remember?" says the man. His grin is still easy, but his eyes shift nervously to Death. "That's not a happy place to be."

"Sylvain," Annette says. _Sylvain,_ Felix remembers darkly. "Where were you?"

"Hm? Me?"

"Yes, you." She socks him in the shoulder and he grunts. "I had to grow a whole batch of daffodils myself because _someone_ played hooky."

Sylvain rubs his arm with a pleasant smile. "I wasn't playing hooky, honest. Just got caught up in a little... conversation."

"Conversation, huh? Did that conversation have _lips_ involved?"

"Don't all of them?"

Annette reaches down. Little daisies pop like buttons out of the grass and she tears them up, flinging them at him. "Ugh. You'd shoot ahead of everyone else if you actually _used_ that talent of yours, you know! Was it a nymph?"

Sylvain shields his face from the soft white blossoms, laughing. "An old friend, actually." He reaches down, growing primrose, and flings them back. "Come on, aren't you happy you got to practice your singing?"

Annette reddens as pale yellow petals shower her. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, growing tulips.

"I don't know what you're embarrassed about. Your voice is pretty." Daffodils.

"I'm not embarrassed!" Peonies.

Felix watches them laughing and devolving into a flower fight. Something is burning in his stomach. He names it as bloodlust and boredom—clearly, he needs to find another battle to reap.

He turns and disappears into Hades, missing how Annette's eyes turn to the undergrowth and linger on the border.

.

.

.

As it turns out, an all-out war on Earth occupies Felix's attention for a while.

It's brutal and modern, an all-reapers-on-deck kind of affair. _Millions of casualties,_ buzzes the Ministry of Reapers, thrumming with excitement. _This war will likely have millions of casualties._

As the sole remaining son of the Lord Reaper, Felix's unit is sent out to the middle of the battlefield—one of the most enviable positions. He's standing in the middle of two raging forces, watching the depravity and desperation of mortalkind with his own eyes.

The earth erupts around him. Bullets and shrapnel phase through his body, invisible to the human eye. The air stinks of blood, smoke, and dust. He stands there in the chaos with Ingrid at his side, waiting among the agonized screams and metal tearing into flesh.

He waits for what feels like an eternity, lifting his hand to stare at the bleeding sun through his fingers.

_Gods, somebody die already,_ he thinks irritatedly.

His plea is answered. He feels a tug on his skull, and knows a life has been taken just five feet away.

He draws his blade, tempered steel that breathes pale green mist as it's unsheathed, almost like a sigh of relief. He motions for Ingrid to stay and stalks down the battlefield to the nearest corpse, every sense alert. A soul rises from a pile of dying men destroyed by an artillery shell. Insignias are embroidered on the outside of his torn sleeve, and in his hands is the gun he died with.

Felix feels a catlike grin spreading over his lips. So, a captain this time. He's been wanting a challenge.

The captain immediately raises his firearm. Felix rushes forward, catching the muzzle of the rifle with the tip of his blade; it misdirects a bullet in the nick of time. He twists his sword. The captain quickly drops the gun and draws a long knife from his hip, darting into close combat.

Most souls killed in battle are violent upon waking. They can't help it. The adrenaline is still running furiously in their mind, and they haven't fully registered their own death.

It makes his job more interesting. He'd be bored out of his mind if reaping was nothing more than paperwork.

Felix trades blows with the captain, fast and furious. He's pressured, but enjoyably so. What the captain lacks in poised experience like Felix, he more than makes up in brutality. It's a trait unique to humans—the desperate bid for survival, even beyond death.

The captain loses his guard for a split second, and Felix seizes the opportunity. A flick of his sword later, the knife falls to the ground.

He levels his blade at the captain's throat. The captain raises his hands, still as stone.

"You're already dead and you don't need to fight anymore," Felix says bluntly. Reapers aren't known for their tact. "Of course, if you want to keep dueling, I'll indulge you. It won't stop your eventual fate of crossing Styx and receiving eternal judgment."

He expects shock from the captain—most humans are—but the captain only nods, resigned. "I see."

So, he entered battle expecting to die. Felix feels a tinge of respect as he sheathes his blade.

"You see that woman?" He waves a hand in the distance to the horizon. "That's the ferryman. Her name's Marianne. You're lucky to get a nice one who actually cares. Most of them are bastards. Wait there, and she'll take you all over Styx in a batch."

The captain looks to the ferry, then back at Felix. "Will I know the outcome of the battle?"

"Leave the matters of the living to the living."

The captain pauses. Felix waits. Then the captain sighs and trods to the ferry.

Felix moves on. He feels the death and misery around him, and he thrives off of it. He's smiling as he duels soul after soul, wetting his blade with adrenaline and dominance. He wonders how he looks, a twisted grin marring his face, splattered with ghostly blood and reeking of smoke.

_Plant the flowers, and they all go bloom!_

If she saw him like this—if she saw him at work—would the fear return? Would she be scared of Death again? Would she realize how violent and empty Death was, and would she never speak to him again?

Why is he thinking about her in the middle of a battle?

Felix puts it out of his mind—her face, her songs, the heated and garish glade, all of it. He focuses on the blood and ash before his eyes.

Before all else, he is a son of Hades and a servant of Death.

.

.

.

Felix's next trip to the border is several days later, after minor wounds to his shoulder and side have closed up. He isn't sure to expect—whether Annette will welcome him again, whether they'll talk, whether Sylvain will be there. There's a thrill of unpredictability with the whole thing. It's the same kick that he gets from battle.

Felix sends Ingrid ahead—she rolls her eyes halfway again—and draws close to the border. He finds Annette sitting beneath a tree as always, focused on the ground below as she grows.

She doesn't look at him.

Felix pauses. She's never _not_ looked at the border before. What does he do? Call for her like some kind of desperate dog? What is she—what is he—no, what is _this?_

What if she's ignoring him?

Eventually, Felix swallows his pride and cups his hands around his mouth. "Annette," he calls.

The sound carries, echoing into the glade.

She doesn't turn around. Her eyes are fixed on the grass as she grows anemones, watching the little blossoms stretch up from the soil.

Felix grits his teeth. He's standing here at the border for no reason, calling to her for no reason, wanting to talk to her for no reason. He's a fool.

He's about to turn and leave when he notices something unusual: the anemones are still growing. They're swelling past the size of a hand, then the size of an arm, then the size of a boulder—should they be that large? Felix stares, aghast, wondering what new trick Persephone's house is concocting.

Then the overgrown anemones hit Annette in the face.

She recoils with a squawk, tearing her hand away from the earth. Her head whips around, clocking her surroundings. She groans when she sees the giant anemones and buries her face in her hands.

Felix blinks. Had she really just been... lost in thought?

He watches as Annette gingerly plucks the anemones and stares at them, brain frozen.

"They suit you," he calls.

Annette's gaze snaps to the border, and he watches with satisfaction as her face colors bright red. Clearly, this was the last moment she wanted to be caught.

She darts over to the border, giant anemones in tow. It's a comical sight to see the purple petals flopping against her back, clashing with her vibrant orange hair. She grinds to a halt, and the weight of the anemones almost pushes her over the border.

"You saw nothing!" she hissed.

Felix peers at the anemones. "They're kind of hard _not_ to see," he says drolly. The petals are so large that they flare out behind her like the plume of a peacock.

Annette groans. "I'll—I'll make you sweets! Just forget what you saw!"

"I don't like sweets."

She recoils again, gobsmacked. The thought that someone could dislike sweets has clearly never crossed her mind. "Then I'll, I'll—I'll make you a statue—"

"Have you ever made one before?"

"I'll burn an offering for you—"

"I'm a servant like you, not a god."

"I'll—I'll—" She runs out of words and stares pleadingly at him. "You can't just forget it? Pretty please?"

He lifts a brow. "I don't think it's possible. The image is permanently burned into my brain."

She flings the anemones at him, reddening. "Ugh, Felix, you're such a villain! Fine! Take them, show them to everyone you know, let them all see—"

The giant anemones wither as they pass the border. Purple and green melt into a sickly grey. They hit bonemeal and crack, dispersing into dust that washes into the alabaster woods.

Annette stands there, silent.

So does Felix.

A chill drops over the air, somber and skittish. All levity is sucked out of the atmosphere. The dust of the anemones is a reminder of how things are—and how they'll always be.

Annette's eyes drop to her toes, and she shuffles.

"You... were gone for a while," she says hesitantly.

Felix looks away. "Yeah. Mission."

"I heard." He hears something new in her voice—something he doesn't like. "The council of Life was... talking about it."

Gossiping.

"I heard it was a very big war."

Gossiping about Death.

"One of the Reaper companies spearheaded the main battle where there were over one million deaths."

Gossiping about _him._

"They said that..." Annette shuffles a little, fingers locking together. "The company was led by the Reaper's Shadow."

Felix finally pinpoints the new note in her voice: suspicion. It socks right to the pit of his stomach. It shouldn't matter that much, but it does. It really does.

"They're right," he says. "I led that company."

Annette's fingers whiten. "Then those one million people..."

She trails off. He waits for her to finish. If she really wants to know—if she really wants to believe him, not just accuse him like everyone else—then she'll ask.

Annette breathes in. "Did you kill them?"

Relief swells.

She asked.

"We don't kill people," Felix says flatly. "People kill each other, and we have to clean it up."

Annette relaxes, her face opening. "Oh, that's—I see."

"It's a myth that Life likes to spread." Life has always enjoyed making Death its enemy.

Annette bites her lip. "That doesn't sound pleasant."

_Pleasant_ isn't exactly a word in Hades. Nothing is pleasant. Some things are tolerable, some things are profitable, some things are even beautiful—in an alabaster-and-onyx kind of way. Nothing is _pleasant._

But right now, the fact that she just immediately believes him... it comes pretty close. No one from Life has ever done that before.

"Was that what was worrying you?" Felix asks. "Clearly, you were preoccupied."

Annette turns her head, ashamed. "I'm sorry, I—you're quite nice. I should've known better..."

"You did say I was a villain."

Her head snaps to him. "That was—"

Then she cuts off abruptly, gaping at his face. Oh. He's smiling.

"You're teasing me?" she says.

His tongue dries. "I don't know."

"You _are._" She smothers a chuckle with her hand. "I'm glad that I met you. I never would've thought that Death smiles and cracks jokes and—and makes for quite a fun friend."

_Friend._ Has he ever used that word before?

"Where's yours?" he says crisply. "Your... friend."

Annette frowns. "My friend?"

"The..." Felix waves a hand. "Annoying one. Who's never around when he should be."

"Oh, Sylvain?" She laughs. "Actually, he went south right as you arrived. You just missed him."

_South? But south is..._

"Wait right here," Annette says brightly, wrenching him out of his thoughts. "That reminds me—I have something for you."

He watches as she darts back to her white wicker basket, pale dress streaming behind her. She rummages through the basket, then returns to the border.

In her hands is a crown of purple flowers.

"I don't know if you remember—our conversation a while back, we were talking about crowns." Annette looks at the purple wreath. "I tried making one that could be useful for Death. It's, um, statice. Or sea lavender. It means remembrance and condolences, so I thought—it might help with remembering souls. But after the anemones... I don't think it'll last over the border. They might just wither away. Do you still want to try?"

She remembered, she made a crown of flowers, she created something to give to him.

Felix swallows. "Thanks," he works out. The syllable is foreign on his tongue. He tries again. "Thank you. A lot."

She grins. "We don't even know if it works yet."

"Still, thanks." He bows his head a little, waiting for her.

Annette gingerly holds the crown of statice and extends it to Felix's head. The blossoms wither to ashen grey as they pass the border, but she continues. He remains still as she affixes the crown. Her fingers skirt just clear of his temples, and he fights the sudden urge to grasp her small, warm hands and press them to his icy cheek. She steps back and admires her handiwork, her eyes crinkling up like rays of the sun.

"It's a pity the flowers didn't last," she says. "But the crown still really fits you."

She sweeps into a curtsy.

"Good day, Queen Death," she chirps.

He scoffs. "Not likely."

"Why? You're beautiful enough to be one," she teases.

He blinks. "What?"

"Beautiful and mysterious, like ice, or the ocean, or the morning fog." She tilts her head. "Kind of like... all of Death, actually."

"Death isn't beautiful." And neither is he.

"But it is." She smiles beyond the border. "There's no black and white in Spring, you know, only colors. Or if we have white, it's very... drifty and formless. Like dandelions. Nothing with intricate form, like in Death."

Felix looks behind him, where raw boulders and trees of alabaster twine with onyx. It's always seemed bleak and barren to him, the statues hewn by master craftsmen threatening, not lovely.

"What, you don't have rocks in Life?" he says dryly.

"Not rocks like _that,_" she says. "They're gorgeous. You don't see it?"

"I don't," he says honestly. He pauses. "Maybe I should."

She smiles, and there's gentleness in her blue eyes that gives his stomach a fluttery feeling. "I think you should."

.

.

.

Felix continues to visit the border. Once a week. Then twice. Then three times. He feels drawn to Spring, craving his sparse yet lively conversations with the sunshine girl. The days where he doesn't visit feel dreary and stretched thin.

Annette sings for him often. She still struggles with embarrassment, knowing her lyrics are childish, but he always eggs her on. He can always use a bit of childish innocence after a life spent in Hades.

Sometimes he lies down as she sings, weaving flower crowns by the border.

_What are you making?_ he asks.

_Gladiolus,_ she says sometimes, _for Ares. Or irises for Athena. Or anthurium for Hestia._

He asks if she likes it. She says that she does. It's a skillful craft that takes a lifetime to master, and she always likes a challenge. He can understand that; so does he.

Sometimes he lowers his guard. Too much, really. One day, he lets slip the fact that he has—had—a brother. Annette looks at him with bright and curious eyes, and he finds himself talking more.

_His name was Glenn,_ he says.

_Glenn?_

_My father loved him._ Still does. More than Felix. _My father used to be less of an asshole. I think. I remember him being at least tolerable._

_What happened?_ Annette rests her chin on her hands, listening.

And Felix tells a story. A story about an impetuous, chivalrous boy and his crybaby little brother. A story about a Reaping that should have gone smoothly and without issue. A story of trickery and being hunted by a mortal hero. A story of how Glenn perished, leaving his father twisted by bitterness and his brother burdened by destiny.

Annette weeps for him when he has no tears. Her eyes are soft when she sees him, _really_ sees him, and he feels a sensation not unlike falling.

And she tells him her story: a story of a little girl in Persephone who adored her father and never knew her mother. A story of growing up surrounded by sunshine and flowers and believing nothing could go wrong in the world. Then—a story of her father disappearing without a trace, leaving behind the vaguest trail that led to false hope after false hope.

_I loved Father,_ Annette mumbles, rubbing at her eyes. She still does.

Felix's hands feel empty, and he wants to stroke her hair and pull her close and comfort her the same way she comforted him.

_He shouldn't have left you,_ he says instead.

_I don't want anyone to leave me ever again. It hurts too much._

_You should hate him._

_I loved him._ She sniffs, waiting.

It's the perfect time for Felix to promise that he'll keep coming to the border, that he'll never leave, that this is precious to him and he'll never let it go.

He says nothing.

.

.

.

For the first time in his life, Felix makes his way to the border four times in one week.

Ingrid steps in front of him on the fourth day, spear clutched tight in her hand like she wants to point it at him. "Young Master Fr—"

"Save it," he says dryly, and steps past her.

"Felix, don't go again." He stops at the tinge of desperation in her tone. "You know that this can't lead to anything good."

_It's already led to something good._ "I don't see why it's any of your business."

"Do you want her to lose who she is?"

The question is sharp, almost angry. Felix's hand clamps down on his sword and he swivels around with a bitter scowl. "You're out of line, and you—"

"Because that's the only way this can go."

Felix is struck speechless. Ingrid's eyes flash defiantly.

"You're being foolish," she says bluntly. "You know that you're creating a problem where there's no solution. She's of Life, and you're of Death. She can't live here, and you can't live there. Oh, sure, it's fun and games right now, stealing away to talk and—do whatever you do. But you have no long-term plan, Felix, you _never_ have any long-term plan, you just dart into everything thinking that you can get away with swinging your stupid sword just like it's a Reaping when it isn't—"

"Why are you taking this so personally?" Because she's right, and he hates that she's right, but he also appreciates her honesty and she's never been this fired up about _anything._

Ingrid falls silent and turns her head, glaring at the far wall.

Silence.

Felix waits, letting it stretch uncomfortably.

"No reason," Ingrid finally says, voice tight. "I've just heard stories from a friend. Connections over the border always end poorly. Always."

He can tell that she's hiding something very important from him. He considers pushing her on the matter, but decides against it. He's also hidden very important things from her. Other nobles would consider him a fool for granting his bodyguard so much autonomy, but he hates the other nobles anyway.

Instead, Felix jerks his head to the door. "Let's go," he says.

It's an order.

.

.

.

Felix sends Ingrid away (and she does leave, even if reluctantly), catches Annette's attention, and now stands at the edge of the border, just one step from crossing the line. Around him, the coldness of Death presses on his skin, and around her, the warmth of Spring lights up her dress.

_You're creating a problem where there's no solution._

"Hi," Annette says, a little breathless. Her voice has been strange lately—nervous, happy, careful, affectionate, bashful and confident and everything in between.

"Hey," Felix says. Maybe his voice sounds the same way.

_She's of Life, and you're of Death._

"I didn't expect you today," Annette says, blushing. "It's a nice surprise. Um, I thought it'd be another two or three days before—"

"Had to see you," he says. "That's all."

Annette blinks. He turns his head, embarrassed.

_You have no long-term plan, Felix. You never have any long-term plan._

"Oh," Annette breathes.

She's so close. His fingers twitch, knowing that they can extend just a fraction and brush with hers.

It's almost painful. No, it _is_ painful. She's wormed her way in with her smile and her songs and her bright, easy compassion, and yet she's too distant for him to reach.

_This can't lead to anything good._

Felix raises his hand.

Annette is completely still, her eyes following him as he reaches up, extends his arm, and—

—lets it pass the border.

The heat that washes over his hand is staggering and brutal, lashed by the rays of the sun. He winces at the unfamiliar pain, but reaches forward, brushing a single knuckle against her cheek. There's a give and a velvet softness that he's not used to, not in a kingdom full of nothing but bones and minerals.

He exhales, and Annette inhales.

He wonders how unpleasant it feels. He wonders if she thinks that he's cold. He wonders if his hand feels slimy.

He doesn't have to wander for very long.

"You feel so refreshing," Annette says with a breathy sigh. She wraps her fingers around his wrist and raises his hand to cradle her cheek. "Like an ocean breeze on a hot summer day. Or the first snow on a mountain. Can I take you with me?"

_Gods, yes._

His flesh is burning in the heat of Spring, but he ignores it, threading his fingers through her hair. She leans further into his touch, her pulse fluttering beneath her skin. A pulse. That's right. He has none, and yet if he had a heart, he'd swear it was in his throat.

She's so close to him, and he itches to pull her closer, to feel the sun in her hands and see the flowers in her smile. She's nothing like him, she doesn't belong at this border, she's the opposite of Death—and her presence is fascinating and intoxicating.

Annette's eyes flutter open. She looks at him quietly for a moment, then turns her head.

Her lips press into the crook of his wrist.

He almost jerks away at the sensation that blazes up his arm. Instead, he stays as still as stone, feeling the softness of her lips against his skin. A light feeling skitters up his spine, like feathers, perhaps.

Annette pulls away, and her fingers twine with his. He can feel the pulse of her heart, warm and darting. His mouth is dry and he can't speak.

"Felix," Annette says. His name sounds so sweet and gentle from her.

"Yes," he breathes.

She blinks slowly. "I wish," she starts, and then cuts herself off, like it'll never happen if she says it.

Felix raises his other hand, letting it burn across the border. He starts with the crest of her temple, his fingers trailing down her cheek, her jaw, the crook of her neck, memorizing the shape of her shoulder and her waistline and her hip. His movement is languid, taking in the velvet of her skin and the silk of her dress.

He wishes he could hold her. She's so close that it hurts.

"I know," he says.

.

.

.

On Felix's way back from the border, Ingrid intercepts him. Her cheeks are somehow flushed and she seems wildly distracted, but she hands him a missive from the underworld without further explanation.

He opens it, only to read in bold red calligraphy: _You have been commanded to present yourself next eventide before the Lord Reaper, Head of the Ministry of Reapers, Second Lord of the Council of Hades._ At the bottom is a scrawled signature and a number of official insignias.

He scoffs and hands the scroll back to Ingrid. "Looks like my old man wants to have a word."

"It seems that way," Ingrid agrees distractedly.

If he notices that she touches her lips, he doesn't mention it.

.

.

.

Sylvain is waiting for Annette at the Glade the next morning—early, when the day is scarcely breaking. He's sitting on the grass, ankles locked together, whistling through dry lips.

"Alright, what's wrong?" Annette says suspiciously as she draws near. "You're never at the Glade this early."

"You wound me, Annette."

"You're usually with the nymphs at this hour."

He casts back his head and laughs softly. "Nymphs... right. They're a thing."

Annette sighs. It's not her place to judge, but in her opinion, a decent person would _at least_ remember the names of the ones he'd seduced.

"I came here to tell you," says Sylvain presently, "that starting today, I might be a bit more useless than usual."

She groans. "_Now_ what?"

"Well, you see, I can't seem to make things grow anymore," Sylvain says with a laugh, examining his hand.

Silence drops over the glade.

Annette blinks, registering his words. "What?"

"Watch."

Sylvain kneels and threads his fingers through the blades of grass. Annette waits for pastel buds to push through the soil and flower towards the sky—but there's nothing. Just the same verdant grass. He dusts off his tunic and stands. His smile doesn't look so cheery anymore.

"I don't understand," Annette fumbles. "You can't just wake up one day and not be able to grow. That doesn't happen. That's never happened."

He shrugs. "Well, as it stands, I can't grow."

She feels a curdle of fear in the pit of her stomach. If this had happened to _Sylvain,_ one of the most naturally talented growers, then who was to say it couldn't happen to everyone? "Sylvain, if you're playing a joke on me—"

"I spent five minutes in Death."

Silence falls on the glade. The air is warm and full of sunshine, but Annette feels cold all over.

Sylvain laughs quietly, and a hand raises absently to touch his lips. "Well, more like seven. The saying is, after all, 'seven minutes in heaven.'"

Annette blinks. "What saying?"

He reaches out and ruffles her hair. His hands feel normal. Warm. He feels like he should still be a son of Spring, a son of Persephone. He should be able to grow things. "Ah, the innocence of a kid. Never mind."

"Sylvain."

"Point being, I can't grow." He shrugs. "Not exactly sure where that leaves me—have you ever heard of a son of Persephone who's a total deadbeat, instead of just... halfway a deadbeat? Because I think I've officially crossed that line."

His tone is light, but Annette can sense the loss beneath it. In one night, he lost his powers, his purpose, and his identity. He lost everything.

"Sylvain," she says, her heart aching.

Sylvain's gaze drops. He knows that she sees right through him. "It was my decision and mine alone. I knew what I was getting myself into. And, well... you see what I am now."

There's a trace of sorrow in his gaze, but no regret.

Annette doesn't understand. She doesn't understand what happened to Sylvain—she doesn't understand why he was in Death, she doesn't understand why he gave up his powers, she doesn't understand any of this except that she feels like she lost a good friend and neither of them know what to do and—

"What happened?" she says, pained. "Another nymph?"

Sylvain's eyes flit to the border of Death, and his nonchalant smile melds into something that tastes more subdued, more wistful.

"Not a nymph," he says. "An old friend."

.

.

.

At eventide, Felix stalks through the domain of Hades—into the underworld, across the river Styx, through the grand waiting halls and past the gates of entry, into the palace and down three flights of stairs. He walks like an empowered missile, Ingrid lurking in his shadow.

He stops in front of a looming chamber barred off by alabaster gates: the entrance to the Inner Sanctums, where only the current Lords of Hades are granted access.

Behind an enormous onyx desk, silver-haired head just barely tall enough to peek over the top, stands the young Lord Gatekeeper. She's so petite that he has to stifle a chuckle.

"Lysithea," Felix greets.

"That's _Lord Gatekeeper_ to you," Lysithea says irritably. She sets down her quill pen and tiptoes to make herself taller. "What is it now?"

Felix raises a brow. "My father sent for me. I need admission to the Inner Sanctums."

"Your summons?"

He holds out his hand, and Ingrid slips the grey papery scroll to him. He hands it to Lysithea, who unravels the scroll with a flick of her wrist and examines it closely.

Lysithea should never have been one of the seven Lords of Hades. Not at her age. But her predecessor had seen fit to abandon his post prematurely, and with her stunning records and picture-perfect memory, Lysithea had been the most fitting candidate for the new Lord Gatekeeper.

And now, the seven gates of Hades were being managed by a precocious child with an insatiable sweet tooth.

Ah, Death. The only emotion more prominent than despair was ironic humor.

Eventually, Lysithea drips blood-red wax at the foot of the scroll and stamps it with her seal, handing it back to Felix. She has to tiptoe again to reach over her giant desk. "Your paperwork is satisfactory. Proceed."

With a wave of her hand, the double gates to the Inner Sanctums swing open with a tormented groan.

Felix glances behind the desk and sees that she's standing on a hollow crate of onyx to help her vertical challenges. He snorts. "You might need to get a taller box."

"This is not a _box,_" Lysithea says with a scowl. "This is my foot-throne."

"Then you might need to get a taller foot-throne."

"Why don't I just chop off your legs below the knee instead?"

"If you can reach them."

"_Felix—_"

He darts through the gates, snickering as she curses behind him.

.

.

.

From the moment Felix enters the Lord Reaper's auditorium, he can tell that this will be no regular summon. This is a summon full of weight and ill intent—bitterness, morbid fascination, and malicious glee.

He draws close to the shadowy figure that sits on the auditorium throne. He doesn't bow.

The figure speaks.

"My sources say," says the Lord Reaper Rodrigue, his voice dripping with venomous honey, "that you have been skylarking over the border, dear son."

The words echo in the silence of the auditorium. Felix's gut drops. His eyes flicker over to Ingrid, but she looks just as shocked as he is. She clutches her crescent spear just a little tighter, eyes darting back and forth between Rodrigue and Felix.

How?

How could he have known?

The Lord Reapers' long, pale fingers tap rhythmically against the armrest of his onyx throne. "Well, boy?" he says, his syllables sliding together like a serpent. "Have you any words in your defense?"

Bitterness rears in Felix, and his eyes narrow. "I don't need any."

"Oh?"

"Why don't you do as you always do, and treat me like I don't exist."

"You could be sneaking trade secrets over the border," the Lord Reaper says.

"You don't even believe that."

"You're quite right. I do not... because it has been reported otherwise."

And the Lord Reaper raises a bony hand. Two guards at the edge of the room, heads encrusted with spiked black helms, toss a sack before his feet. A pile of scrolls pours from its mouth, rolling to at stop on his shoes.

Felix swallows.

The Lord Reaper's hand meanders through the pile, unaffected, then snags one of the scrolls. He rolls it open and clears his throat.

"'He caressed her cheek, tenderly, as lovers do,'" he reads aloud, his tone dripping with mockery and contempt. "'I have never seen so soft an expression on a reaper's face. I believe his affection may be reaching a level of concern.'"

Ice floods Felix. "You had me _followed_?"

The Lord Reaper ignores him—as always—and picks up another scroll, continuing to read. "'They spoke again today. He had lain himself by the border, and she had braided crowns next to him. They spoke in each other's confidence. My lord, what concerns me is that he was close enough for her to stab him in the chest without repercussion, yet he cared not and armed himself not. He is becoming reckless.'"

"Bastard," Felix says behind gritted teeth.

"'Today, he has diverted himself from his duties once more to steal away to the border. This close bond with a servant of Life may affect his judgment and his ability to reap. Excessive empathy will lower his effectiveness. If I may be so bold, I emphatically request that my lord speak to him.'"

_Effectiveness._

That's all his father has cared for since Glenn. Effectiveness. He'd do anything to raise effectiveness, and destroy anything that hampered it.

Including Annette.

"What have you done to her." The words spitting out of Felix's mouth are barely civil.

The Lord Reaper regards him with a raised brow. "Nothing."

"Deceiver."

"No, it's true." He snaps his fingers, and the scrolls are eclipsed by green flame, burning to ash. "I have no intention of stopping these... happy meetings."

He grins, the edge of his teeth illuminated by the pale light, and nausea spins with the hatred in Felix's gut until they're indistinguishable.

"Do bring her to me." The Lord Reaper laughs, and the sound is like slime on Felix's skin. "I adore any acquisition from those haughty simpletons in Life, as does His Majesty."

_Acquisition._

There's flashes before Felix's eyes. Fiery hair. A rosy blush. Crinkling eyes and a beaming grin.

"Pity that I'll have to disappoint you for the hundredth time," Felix says, his voice like corded steel. "She'll never set foot in the underworld."

He turns sharply and exits the throne room. Ingrid follows his shadow.

.

.

.

Felix's footsteps are heavy on the way to the border.

Something is squeezing his innards and stinging his eyes and filling his skull with heat. He feels his natural tendencies rising to the surface: the obsessive desire to _kill,_ to see _blood,_ to hear _pain—_

A problem with no solution.

Death and Life.

"Felix!"

Over the border, Annette drops her wicker basket and runs to him, her face beaming like a canvas of sunshine and flowers.

Gods. The knife twists in his chest.

"Felix," she says, out of breath. "You came at, the perfect time—I just, finished writing a—you know what, just listen for a moment, I'll sing it for you."

He wants to listen. He loves her voice, he loves her singing, he loves her songs.

"Alright—it's a little rough, but, here—"

He loves her.

"Annette."

His tone is cold, and Annette cuts off abruptly. She looks at him, confusion etching into her brow.

He steels himself. He looks at her, flat and emotionless.

"I'm leaving," he says.

Annette's hands rise to lock nervously, and her face is uncertain. "O-oh," she says. "An extended mission. I see, yeah. When will you—"

"I'm not coming back."

A chill settles on the border. Hades is cold, but now it feels like it's freezing even his skin. All happiness drops from Annette's face, and her eyes widen. She stares at him in silence, but she can't seem to parse his words.

"What?" she whispers.

He repeats it, harsher this time. "I'm not coming back." He turns, and his hand seeks the pommel of his sword for comfort. "That's all. Goodbye."

He doesn't dawdle. He starts walking away, keeping his pace even and steady, even though he wants to run—run from the pressure on his chest and the pain in his skull.

Behind him, Annette takes a sharp breath. He can hear her stumbling forward like a puppet yanked on its strings.

"Don't leave me. Please, don't leave. Felix. _Felix!_"

Her anguished cry is sharp and plaintive, and it cuts through his chest. His steps stutter. No matter how much he tells himself to keep walking, his feet refuse to move.

Annette sees that he's stopped, and she falls silent. He can hear her small, shuddering hiccups. He can feel her scrambling for words.

"Can you—can you please, please at least tell me what I did wrong," she says in a rush, syllables tumbling over each other. "Please tell me what I did wrong—Father, he never told me, he left without telling me what I did wrong—please, Felix, what did I do?"

Fury rises fierce in Felix's stomach. Of course, she blames herself for her father's absence. Of course.

"Nothing," he says, trying to temper his tone. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"But you're leaving," she says desperately.

His tongue dries to the roof of his mouth. Curse the gods for his weakness.

Felix steels himself and closes his eyes. He has to do this. Has to. He'll listen to her scream and cry for a thousand years if it means she'll live freely.

"Goodbye, Annette," he says with finality, and resumes his pace.

He hears the crunch of bonemeal behind him.

Felix stops, swiveling around.

Annette has stepped across the border.

Pale light coats her dress, and she shivers at the sudden cold, hands cradling across her chest to trap the warmth—but her eyes are determined and her mouth is set.

Felix lurches towards her, alarmed. "Annette, get back over the border!"

"No." Her voice is firm. She takes another step. "I won't—I won't watch you go, too."

He dashes to her and grips her by the shoulders, trying to force her back. She grinds her heels into the bonemeal ground, but he's stronger than her; she stumbles back into Spring. Warmth coats her frame, and he sees the minuscule ice crystals on her eyelashes melt away.

Relief washes over Felix, but he doesn't sit in it. He turns on her. "By the gods, woman, are you trying to kill yourself?" he snaps.

She flushes an angry red. "I wasn't even being reckless! I just wanted answers!"

"Five minutes in Death is enough to take your powers, and ten minutes traps you forever!" Felix wants to throttle something, strangle something, _kill_ something. "It's how the realm of Death protects itself from the realm of Life, and how the realm of Life protects itself from the realm of Death. Why do you think we haven't had a war?"

She doesn't respond. She's only watching him with watery blue eyes.

It makes him even angrier. "Didn't you learn all this as a child?" he hisses. "Never enter Death! Never! An arm for one minute, a leg for half, but the whole body, never!"

He's out of words and silence falls.

"You were really scared for me," Annette says, puzzled.

He runs his pale fingers through his hair. "Of course I was," he snaps.

The words make her lips part.

"You can't be here," he continues sharply, "and I can't be there. There's no use in meeting anymore. That's why I'm not coming back. And if you're as smart as I think you are, then you won't either."

If they lingered, it would only hurt.

At least, it'd hurt him.

Annette's gaze holds his. When she speaks, her tone is quiet, but firm. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Don't you dare lie." Her eyes blaze blue. "What happened, Felix?"

His mouth is dry and he swallows. He's probably being followed right now—recorded right now—all for the sick entertainment of his miserable, thrice bedamned—

"My father. The Lord Reaper. He wants to use you." Felix looks away, gripping his scabbard. "You're just another pawn against his squabble with the ruler of Life. Sometimes people from Life are tempted to cross the border. He always ends up with control over them, and they always end up as miserable bondservants."

A small smile spreads over Annette's face—almost devilish. "Well, he hasn't met me."

"There's no defying the Lord Reaper. Or any of the Lords of Death."

"That's what he wants you to think."

Why doesn't she understand? It's futile, it's impossible, it's—

"Ingrid was a daughter of Athena," he blurts.

Annette blinks, absorbing his words.

"Her father stayed over the border for five seconds too long," Felix says. He can't stop the bitterness coating his tongue. "The Lord Reaper was the one who found him and trapped him. They made a deal: he could trade himself with his child. He accepted, even though his powers were already lost. Swore on the River Styx, that bastard."

It's a disgusting story; a story of selfishness that rivals even the humans. Ingrid's always told it pragmatically. Felix has always hated her father in her stead.

"The Lord Reaper took Ingrid from the Library of Athena," he said. "She lost her parents, her former powers, and her world. And instead of becoming a sentinel of knowledge with both weapons and records, she was placed at my side as a bodyguard and a slave. And that's what my father does. That's what Death is. Taking, not giving. Killing, not growing. There's no place for a reaper in Life, and no place for a grower in Death."

Annette's eyes fall. There's a myriad of emotions on her face: sorrow, pity, thoughtfulness, determination.

"I wonder," she says.

She crouches at the border. Her hand reaches over into Death. Felix reflexively wants to stop her—she'd just stepped through, after all—but she keeps the intrusion at just her hand, which settles on the pale ground.

"Did you know," she says, her voice soft, but rich, "that bonemeal is one of the greatest fertilizers?"

And Felix watches, amazed, as tendrils of deep forest green twine from the white earth, threading through bones and erupting into vibrant blossoms.

Color, black, and white.

"On the outside," Annette continues, "it might look like we lose our powers. And it's obvious that we do change, permanently, somehow. Maybe we can't make things how they once were."

Her eyes lift to his, and he feels as if he's seeing the sky, endless and without boundaries.

"But what we can do," Annette whispers, "is make something new."

The vines slow to a stop, and Annette draws herself up. Her gaze falls on the new creation: dark color, luxurious and velvety, spotted with glowing bone.

"Maybe the reason why people think they lose their powers," she says, "is that they were only trying to grow things that they could grow in Life. I wonder what could grow from Death."

"Nothing. Death only withers."

She looks at him again, and she suddenly seems so vibrant and beautiful and powerful that she's like a fragment of the sun. "But look. What if? What if things could grow?"

She kneels to examine one of the blossoms: deep crimson, the color of spilled blood, but with the vibrancy of life. Felix quite likes it.

"I've never seen flowers with this deep of a color," Annette says wonderingly, her fingers skating over the petals. "What is it, you think?"

Something stirs in Felix's memory: a name from an age long gone, a whisper from the annals of Hades.

"A rose," he tests.

It sounds right.

"I think it's called a rose."

.

.

.

Felix extracts the bouquet of flowers and bones and carries it down the river Styx, through the gateway to the Palace of Hades, down a winding staircase, and into his room of twisting alabaster and onyx. He expects the blossoms to wither and grey, and eventually pass to dust. Nothing lasts for long beyond the border.

But the flowers remain vibrant, almost defiant. They sit on his shelf in their stately colors, showing no sign of weakness. The rose stands proud.

Felix smiles.

.

.

.

He runs to the border with the flowers in tow, and Annette is already there to meet him, hands clasped behind her back and a knowing smile on her face.

"Annette," he says in a rush, "the rose, it lived. It's alive."

She nods, like she already knew. Of course she already knew. She's attuned to growing things; she probably felt it from the moment the bouquet first sprouted.

"Which means Death can grow," she says, beaming.

"Probably."

"Which means there could be a grower _in Death._"

"Probably."

"Which means I'm defecting."

Felix stops.

He stares in silence as the birds chirp in the Glade.

Annette blinks innocently at him.

"No, you're not," he eventually says.

She tilts her head. "Um, yes, I am."

"You can't just—you can't defect. That's not... Annette. Come to your senses."

"I did," she says, and the optimism on her face is starting to darken into annoyance. "That's why I'm defecting."

"This is a fool's choice," Felix says. He's fumbling and yet he still sounds hostile. "You're young. You're talented. You need to stay in Persephone. It's a good place for a good person like you. You shouldn't sacrifice so much—"

"Felix." She meets his gaze, her blue eyes like steel.

"Yeah?"

"I thought about this long and hard all night. I'm almost certain I can grow in Death. And that means I can weave crowns in Death. It's a _completely_ unexplored area, new flowers and new meanings, new skills..." She's beaming, the possibilities turning over in her mind. "Don't you dare think that I'm resigning myself to an unhappy life of being shut in a tower. I'm going to _grow._ I take pride in my work, just like you."

Yes, but—it's Death. _Death._

Felix's eyes narrow. "This isn't just a weekend trip or a vacation, Annette. It's a permanent decision."

"I know."

"You wouldn't be able to go back."

"Yeah, I know what 'permanent' means."

He looks at her. Her chin is stiff and her eyes are sharp. "Gods. You won't budge, will you?"

"Nope. I told you, I thought it through. This is the decision I've reached."

"_Why._"

"You know why," she cries, and she reaches into the bitter cold of Death and seizes his hand. "You know exactly why. Don't you?"

He looks away and clears his throat at the heat of her skin on his.

She waits expectantly.

"That's not reason enough," he eventually says.

She shakes her head. "It's the reason for just about anything in the world."

He's silent. He can't think straight. Annette could be here, _with him,_ and they wouldn't be separated, not anymore—but she'd be in Death, under pressure from the Lord Reaper, forcibly uprooted from everything she knew and loved. He wants her here, but he doesn't want her here. He needs her here, but he needs her to _not_ be here.

"Felix," says Annette, and she's starting to look uncertain, even scared—"I don't like this border. Do... do you?"

His answer is immediate, and his gaze burns as he looks at her. "I'd cut it down if I could."

She breathes, and Spring breathes with her.

"Then cut it down."

And Felix understands.

The decision is hers, but she can't make it alone. She has to know that he'll stand by her. She has to know that he won't leave.

Maybe, just maybe, they can figure something out. Maybe they can make something new.

Felix extends a single hand across the border. Annette slides their fingers together.

Then she steps to him.

The pale light of Death coats her frame, and Felix has to push down the urge to shove her back. Instead, he tugs her by the wrist and wraps his arms around her, feeling the shape of her flush against him. After months of her being so close, yet so far, it's _heavenly._ Gods, how long has he waited for this moment?

Annette exhales and her arms reach up, fingers gingerly digging into his cloak. "Hi," she whispers.

"Hey," he rasps.

Then he feels her shiver.

Ten minutes. It'll take ten minutes, and then everything will change.

Felix quickly strips his cloak and sinks down, bundling it tightly around her. He wishes he were warm like her—warm so that she'd be more comfortable.

"Sorry," he says. "It's probably cold."

"No, it's fine," she breathes. Her fingers clutch onto him. "I... I can finally touch you. I'm glad."

A flare hits his chest and he pulls her close. She's right; she's right here with him. He just wishes that she wasn't in pain.

The first minute passes.

Annette's teeth are chattering, but her voice is strong. "Can you sing me a song?"

"I'm tone-deaf."

"Then it'd make me laugh."

He snorts. "Tough luck."

Annette squints. "Are you really tone-deaf, or are you just embarrassed because you've never really trained in music?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You're pretty discerning in your musical taste." She grins. "After all, you like my voice."

He actually chuckles.

Another minute.

"I do like your voice," he says, the words coming out clunky and awkward. Saying nice things doesn't come easy to him. "It's captivating."

Annette flushes. "O-oh. I, um. Didn't expect you to say that."

"Not great at giving compliments, am I?"

"You—you shouldn't feel like you have to, you know," she mumbles.

Felix looks at her. "It means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

"Well... um, yeah."

"Then I'll try to get better at it."

And they fall into silence.

Another minute.

"What are you thinking about?" Annette asks. Her voice is starting to sound distant and sleepy.

Felix's fingers clench a little tighter in the cloak around her. "If you'll regret this decision," he says honestly.

Annette giggles a little. "It's a risk. Love is always a risk, because you have something to lose."

"That's very... sage of you."

"I got it from a book," Annette admits. "I like reading."

Another minute.

"We have a library," Felix says, a little hoarse.

For one moment, all sluggishness passes out of Annette's eyes. Her head jerks up and she looks at him with bright curiosity. "Oh?"

"Yeah." And it's a huge one. A widespread lobby as vast as a stadium, with floors and floors lined with shelves and shelves. A ceiling that stretches up so high that it disappears into the haze of the underworld. "All the books that kings and emperors have burned, all the books that passed into dust, all the books that were shredded and destroyed—those books come to Hades. The knowledge probably isn't as extensive as the Library of Athena. But it's there."

"It sounds beautiful."

He imagines dark and vivid flowers blooming from the colorless braziers.

She'd make it beautiful.

The wind sighs, and the fifth minute passes. Annette's body jolts a little, and she sighs, confusion passing over her face.

"Are you okay?" Felix asks.

"It left," Annette mumbles. "Spring. Oh... it feels strange. Like losing an arm."

Felix quickly stands, hoisting her in his arms. "Sorry. We should get you back over the border. This might be—"

"Sit back down, you."

He sits down.

Another minute with the daughter of Persephone who can grow Spring no more.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

"Not really." Annette squints. "It's like... being an artist your whole life, and then waking up one morning finding that you don't have hands anymore."

"That sounds..." Terrifying. Upsetting. Heartbreaking. "Bad."

"It's okay," she says. "I have hope. I think—I might get something new with the tenth minute, maybe, once Death claims me. And I know I can still grow. It's just... I don't think I can grow daffodils ever again, and that makes me a little sad."

He kisses her brow. "Sorry."

Another minute.

"It's cold," Annette says in a shudder.

Felix bundles her tighter, pressing her to his chest. He's not sure if it helps, but then she buries her face into his collar.

"Better?" he asks.

"Mm."

Another minute.

Annette's breath is getting shallow, and he's terrified. He tells himself that she won't die, that she's not mortal, that this was her choice and hers alone. But his mind still spins, wondering if something will go wrong. Wondering if she'll turn to ash. Wondering if she'll be taken from him, somehow, some way, just like Glenn.

Another minute, just before the end.

Annette raises her head. There's the slightest trace of fear in her eyes, and she grips onto his cloak a little tighter.

"Felix," she says. She sounds so tired. "Will it hurt?"

"No," he says.

"How do you know?"

"You won't even notice it."

She quiets. She doesn't have the strength to speak anymore. Felix waits, his fingers ticking as he counts down the seconds.

"Annette."

A pause.

"Mm?"

He leans down and kisses her.

He cradles her close. Her mouth is soft, and something like lightning skitters up his veins. She gives a small little sigh, melting into his touch. It makes him want more of her, but right now, she's so weak that he's scared he'll break her.

The final minute passes.

Felix draws back, carefully bracing her. Annette's eyes flutter open, and she smiles at him.

"You're right," she says. "I didn't even notice it."

She slowly pulls herself to her feet, folding his cloak neatly. Felix watches nervously for any signs of illness, but she only looks down at her hands, eyes bright and curious.

"I'm not cold anymore," she says wonderingly. She reaches out her hand, skating her fingers along the edges of the nearest alabaster tree.

And she grows.

Luscious vines twine around alabaster trees, dark green spotted with crimson: red roses.

And she grows.

Bushels erupt from the earth, deep emerald and angular in shape, sporting drooping sapphire blossoms: blue wolfsbane.

And she grows.

Bonemeal congeals and twists together, rising into pale stems and hardened petals: flowers of bone.

Annette stops, her eyes casting over the little garden around her.

"It feels like I belong here." She laughs, the sound still bright and spry, and reaches out. "I think I was made for this."

Roses and wolfsbane and bone twine together in a striking bouquet. She picks them gingerly, her fingers skirting over their petals with the same gentleness as daisies and peonies. She turns to him, extending the bouquet.

Felix accepts the bouquet, lips quirking into a smile.

"Good day, Queen Death," he says.

Annette laughs, eyes sparkling, more alive than ever. He tugs her in by the waist and swoops down to kiss her. This time, it's languid and slow, his mouth burning into hers as he clutches her close and she braces her arms around his neck.

After all, they have all the time in the afterlife.

.

.

.

**Bonus.**

"Can you let her into Hades?" Felix asks.

"No," Lysithea says immediately. "I don't _let in_ servants of Life."

Annette bites her lip. Her gaze darts to Felix, who nods at her. She brings out a platter of cake from behind her back with a sheepish smile.

"I'm pretty good at baking sweets," she says.

Lysithea's eyes widen.

"You're in."

**Author's Note:**

> i had a ton of fun writing this and imagining up an original/fusion universe with mythology! i actually have a bunch of notes on where the other characters are / what they're doing... so might expand with some other oneshots in the same universe? idk. hope you liked this story. it's 12k and i'm an idiot.
> 
> [my twitter!](https://twitter.com/lunachaili)


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